An Unholy Mission (21 page)

Timothea shook her head. “Too far for both of us, Olympia. He’s down in Texas, and I’m up here. Actually, I thought I might see if there’s anything I can do to help out at Jenny’s shelter. Street people aren’t all white, you know. It might help to have a sister down there doin’ some o’ dat listenin’.

Impulsively, Olympia threw both arms as far as they would reach around Timothea’s ample frame. “You have the biggest heart.”

“And I gots the biggest be-hind to go with it.”

When the two stopped laughing, Olympia told her friend that if she didn’t go to the shelter and if she didn’t have another invitation for Thanksgiving, she was invited out to Brookfield to join her own diverse assemblage. Timothea thanked her and said that she’d talk with Jenny first and then let her know. If she did come, she’d bake a pecan pie that could raise the dead and make a blind man see, and in Jesus’ name, she’d bring it.

Olympia’s ribs were still sore from all the merriment when she walked into the parking garage. She had begun driving into Boston again. It was far easier than public transport, considering how many changes she had to make; but in deference to everyone’s warnings to be careful, she had requested a new parking space that was closer to the entrance and far better lighted.

As she opened the car and slipped in, her thoughts went back to her friend. Timothea was one funny lady, and the more she got to know her, the better she liked her. It had been a long time since she’d had a girlfriend.

Olympia turned the key in the ignition and heard only a metallic click, the dreaded sound of either a dead battery or a defunct starter. Crap! She tried a second time, and after a few throaty growls, the engine turned over and started. If she made it home without mishap, the time had definitely come to have this taken care of. With luck they might be able to fix it over the weekend. Driving Frederick’s ancient yellow pickup was not her idea of suitable transportation. On the other hand, if they couldn’t fix it, she could always go back to taking the bus.

Inching along, bumper to tailpipe, in the rush hour crawl, Olympia turned her thoughts toward home and mused for a moment on her good fortune in having found herself an antique New England farmhouse with more character, and characters,
than an English TV costume drama. Home was good, and it was getting even better now that Frederick, uncostumed but as English as any character in
Upstairs Downstairs
, was there waiting for her.

She had one more heart-stopping moment when the car stalled out at a light, but she was able to get it going and this time made it all the way back to Brookfield without further incident.

After supper she and Frederick sat at the kitchen table, going over the logistics of what was shaping up to be a fairly eventful holiday weekend. As usual, Olympia had her calendar and her to-do list on the table in front of her, and she was adding things to it as fast as she was crossing them off. In addition to the daily list was the Thanksgiving dinner list and beside it, the expanding menu. Added to all of that was Jim’s arrival. He said he was planning on moving in on Wednesday, the day after tomorrow.

Both Olympia’s sons, Malcolm and Randall, told her they were coming just for the day and bringing their girlfriends. Now, maybe Timothea would join them. She added a question mark to the right of her name. This made a total of eight. Piece of cake.

The only person not on the calendar or any of her lists was her daughter Laura and baby Erica. As much as she would have rejoiced in having her there and showing off her daughter and granddaughter, she didn’t want to make things awkward. The two women were still coming to terms with where they might fit into each other’s lives, and both knew that it would take time. Olympia hoped that one day she would have them all together, but that hadn’t happened yet. Her sons had not met their sister, and when she suggested it, they expressed interest but not enthusiasm. She knew in her heart they, too, were adjusting to the fact that they had a sister and their mother had given birth to her out of wedlock.

Children, no matter how old and mature they might think they are, have difficulty imagining their parents as sexual beings. Never mind the biological reality of how they both got here, thought Olympia with an internal smirk.  That was one of those things her sons preferred not to think about, and she didn’t press the issue. 

Olympia loved having a full house and a full table and wondered what holidays in the past had been like in this historic house of hers. Maybe she’d find something in Miss Winslow’s diary that might open that particular window for her. That, she promised herself, was something she would absolutely do over the long weekend, get caught up on her personal reading. She had been so busy of late with chaplaincy that she’d not made time for it. Sorry, Leanna, I’ve been neglecting you. Then she laughed at the curiosity of it. Not too many people she knew had a house-ghost who was so determined to make herself known and heard,  but hers did; and odd as it might have sounded to anyone but Frederick, Olympia was glad she did.

On Tuesday evening Timothea called to say that if the invitation was still open, she would love to come.  She said that she’d called Jenny and learned that on Thanksgiving Day they usually had far more help than they needed. It seemed like everyone in the world who didn’t have a place to go turned up at a soup kitchen or shelter to help out, and should she bring one pie or two on Thursday?

Olympia chucked. “Well, there’s probably only going to be eight of us, so I suppose one will be enough.”

“I’ll bring three,” said Timothea, “one for you, one for me, and one for everybody else.”

“And a gift certificate to Weight Watchers on the side, right?”

Now it was Timothea’s turn to chuckle. Then she abruptly turned serious. “Say, there, you hear anything from Luther? Did he just sink without a bubble, or what?”

Olympia shuddered at the thought of her last encounter with him.

“No, nothing lately. You know, I still feel sorry for him. He’s alone, he’s probably in pain—and if he’s not, he’s going to be. I never did learn if he had any family.”

“Olympia Brown, I know where you’re going with this, and I don’t want you to even think about it. He made his choice. More than one of us has tried to reach out to him, and he wanted none of it. That man has his own agenda, and whatever it is, I don’t like it. Even though I haven’t seen him for a while now, he still give me da willies.” When Timothea became impassioned over something she would slip back into the phrasing and intonations of her childhood, and Olympia loved it.

“Okay, my friend, come as early as you want on Thursday and just hang out with us. I’ll be cooking, Jim will be extolling the nose and legs of whatever fantastic wine he’s brought, and Frederick will be irretrievably English. That doesn’t seem to change.”

“Who’s Jim?”

“Oh, I guess I haven’t told you about him. He’s my best friend. He’s a priest.”

“And he likes good wine. M-m-m-m-m.”

“Timothea, you’re really to going like him. In fact, now that I think about it, in some ways you are both quite similar.”

When she said goodbye and hung up the phone, Frederick, who had been hearing only her side of the conversation asked if that was the woman she’d grown so fond of and was she coming on Thursday?

“Yes and yes,” said Olympia. “She’s a very intelligent and perceptive person, and she can be funny as hell when she wants to be. There’s a lot of good woman there, and I mean that literally.”

“I’m looking forward to it, but on a more serious note, your older kitty is looking a bit dickey on her dardelums. She’s not eaten much in the last couple of days. Do you think there might be something wrong with her?”

As if on cue, Whitefoot, the old tortoiseshell female, tottered into the kitchen and crouched on the floor beside Olympia. He’s right, she thought. She doesn’t look well at all.
She had long ago lost count of Whitefoot’s cat years, but in people years it had to be well into the hundreds, and it was showing. She leaned over and gently lifted the old animal onto her lap and then turned to Frederick.

“You’re right. Something’s wrong with her, Frederick. Get your coat; we’re taking her to the vet.”

Later that evening, working side by side in the shaft of light coming through the kitchen window, Frederick and Olympia dug a hole in the garden and buried the grand old lady. She was wrapped in a knitted afghan that Olympia had made for Randall when he was a baby. Frederick, soulmate and comforter, stood by and held her when it happened and kept Olympia supplied with fresh handkerchiefs all the way home.

 “I know it’s for the best,” she snuffled, her breath making wet puffs in the cold November air. “She had no pain at all.”

“And she would have if we had tried to operate on her or medicate her,” said Frederick. “We both know it’s the kindest thing we could do for her.”

“Then why does it hurt so much?” said Olympia through a fresh burst of tears.

“Because you loved her so much, my darling, and she’s weathered more than a few storms with you.  In the spring we’ll go and get an English rosebush and plant it over her. Come on, my love, let me make you a nice pot of tea, and we’ll lift a quiet cup to her memory.”

“I tucked a few cat treats in the blanket with her, said Olympia.

 “So did I,” said Frederick.

Twenty

On Thanksgiving night, when the last of the dishes had been crammed into the overloaded dishwasher and the remaining shards of pecan and apple pie wrapped and stowed, Olympia literally threw in the towel. She shooed Frederick, Timothea and Jim into the sitting room for a postprandial thimbleful of the hideously expensive French brandy Jim had provided as part of his contribution to the meal. Now, sprawled in various attitudes of over-full abandon around the sitting room, they were sipping, telling stories and enjoying the sound and smell of the wood fire. Olympia’s two sons stayed long enough to pack up several days’ worth of leftovers and then headed out in an attempt to miss the worst of the holiday traffic. Thunderfoot, Olympia’s remaining cat, was unsettled and kept meowing and sniffing around, looking for his old friend.

“So what are we each going to do with the rest of the weekend?” Olympia addressed the question to everyone and went on to outline her own plans. “I’m going to do some reading, and when I’m not doing that, I’m going to tackle the storage shed.”

Frederick made a face and turned to Jim. “This translates as a rather detailed to-do list for yours truly. I only just got your sitting room upstairs cleaned out, and now she’s setting me off on a new dusty and cluttered endeavor.”

“I can scrape walls and carry junk as well as the next man,” said Jim. “Just because I’m here for a little down time away from holy mother church doesn’t mean I’m incapacitated, you know. In fact, it would be a welcome change to get back to working with my hands. It’s what I did all through high school to make some pocket money.”

“Jim, I didn’t know you were in the trades. I thought you were born wanting to be a priest. I can’t picture you with a hammer in your hand.”

“My father was a builder. He used to let me help out when I was growing up. I got good enough that he started paying me. That’s when I was friends with your Sister Patrick, only I knew her as Wanda Marie Wysocki. Two Polacks from the West End. Galumpki’s on Saturday night and mass at St. Stanislaw’s on Sunday.”

“You knew Sister Patrick?” said Timothea.

 “I did. She could run faster than any of us, and even worse than that, she had the best grades in the school, too.”

“And you both ended up in the church.”

Jim nodded, then swirled and sniffed his brandy before speaking. “It’s great being connected with her again. Speaking of that, I know he dropped out of the program, but has anyone seen or heard anything from that strange guy you both were so worried about? Luther somebody or other. I never did manage to have a second meeting with him.”

“You mean Luther Stuart,” said Timothea.

“Other than when we crossed paths in one of the underground walkways the day he left, not a word,” said Olympia.

Timothea shivered involuntarily at the mention of the tunnels under the hospital and began rumbling.

Frederick, who had been sitting and taking this all in, turned to Olympia, who was sitting to his right. “You know I’ve never met the man, but from what you’ve told me, I don’t think you’ve heard the last of him.”

Timothea rumbled again and said, “Much as I hate to say it, Frederick, I think you’re right. That man gave me the creeps from day one.”

Olympia held up her hand. “Enough. This is a holiday. We’ve shared a lovely day, we’re winding down in front of the fire, I miss my old cat, and I don’t want to think of anything creepy.”

Her statement was punctuated by the sound of a double chime coming from the clock on the mantel.

“Evidently, Miss Winslow agrees with you, Olympia,” said Frederick.

“That, or she’s telling us to pay attention to something.”

Timothea looked puzzled. “Miss Winslow? Unless I’m mistaken, there are only four of us here. What you talkin’ bout, Miss Winslow? Who she?”

“Um, you believe in ghosts, Timothea?”

Timothea shifted in her chair and cast a nervous glance in the direction of the clock. “’Course I do, only we call ‘em the homies where I come from. They’re the spirits of the ancestors.”

Olympia stood and started toward the kitchen. “Jim, I think this calls for another drop of brandy all around. Timothea, you can have another drink and stay the night, if you want, or you can have a coffee. You tell me.”

“I’ll take the coffee, Olympia. I need to be in Boston by nine tomorrow morning with both eyes open.”

“Let me take care of it, Olympia,” said Frederick getting up out of his chair. “I’m well acquainted with the lady in question.”

Luther Stuart was not feeling at all well. He declined his landlady’s invitation to have Thanksgiving dinner with her and her husband, saying that he would eat at the hospital. In truth, he spent most of the day on the sofa, alternately napping and reading his Bible. Later in the afternoon, when she turned up outside his door holding a heaping plate wrapped in plastic and ready for the fridge or the microwave, he accepted it with a grateful smile. Not to do so would hurt her feelings, and he would never want to do that. She was such a good heart. They both were. He lifted the cover and sniffed. Slices of turkey, sage and onion dressing, and butter-soaked mashed potatoes—the smells of his childhood. Maybe he’d try some of the potatoes. They’d go down easy.